Of Broken Bones and Hearts
by Meowbowwow
Summary: When John breaks his arm and Sherlock is trying hard to contain his feelings. How a little wine and some Holmesian love can work wonders...
1. Chapter 1

I

Sherlock was, as usual, in a bad mood because of a case that Lestrade had promised to be "interesting" which had turned out to be nothing but "fluff", according to him. He had, in no uncertain terms, told Lestrade every little feeling he had about his intelligence, adding a few phrases about Anderson's personality, just as a bonus to himself. All in all, it wasn't a good day for Watson who was trying his best to read mysteries off the newspaper that Sherlock dismissed with a wave of his hands and a few incoherent phrases that he thought were sufficient explanations.

A few seconds later, John's phone beeped, signalling a new message.

"Who is it now, is it Lestrade? Give me your phone for a moment, I still have some unused and never-heard-of adjectives I missed," Sherlock made to snatch the phone and was rather taken aback by the "Waiting, call me" that flashed on his phone.

"Oh, I'm sorry John. It's not from Lestrade, after all. I will have to save my words," he said, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice. It had been a while since he'd realized that the warm feeling that spread across his chest when John looked at him was something that he needed to keep a tab on. John was watching the message very closely and was smiling a little which make Sherlock even more irritable.

"Is there a joke I could be a part of, John?" he said in a Holmesian tone. "No, it's something you can really not be a part of, Sherlock. Anyways, I don't think you'd understand. I have to go. Do you want something for dinner? I might be late," he stood up so quickly that even the brilliant mind of Sherlock Holmes was a little confused. He looked happy and rather satisfied, he was almost grinning.

"No, I need nothing. I am, in fact, looking forward to some peace and quiet without you thinking so loudly down my neck and making all sorts of noises like breathing etcetera," he really was piqued and could barely stand hiding his emotions. The very idea of John going on dates after dates with god-knows-how-many-women-who-did-not-deserve-him made Sherlock uncomfortable.

"Okay then, enjoy yourself. Don't smash anything. The milk is spoilt, if you need tea then ask Mrs. Hudson," saying this John happily skipped away leaving Sherlock blazing in his own fury.

Why was it that John needed to be with someone all the time? Why did it have to be a relationship? They had so much work that it could keep a person busy for an entire week, yet he chose to spend time with unintelligent women who were not only pretty in a rather plastic way but seemed to have no sense of humour at all( they didn't appreciate Sherlock's 'humour'). And it irked him that even though John had been in a relationship with a man before (someone in college, someone Harry told him about), he showed no signs of even being remotely attracted to Sherlock's intelligence, let alone his physical attributes. He slumped off on the sofa and turned his back to the door, putting his phone on silent.

Meanwhile, John Watson had an accident and was getting his broken arm fixed by a colleague.


	2. Chapter 2

II

John was cursing Sherlock under his breath, how he was a little irritable at the message but still showed no signs of being irritated enough to look at him in the eye and stop his 'date'. That day, John Hamish Watson learnt that cursing the only consulting detective in the world while you are crossing the road is not on the list of things that will make you feel better. The cab swerved fast enough to leave him with a fractured arm only and nothing more, at least now he could swear in the open (Watson was an optimistic man).

"Oh god, John, have you been going after criminals yourself, lately? Blog not running that well, eh?" Sherlock smirked but the note of worry rang clear in his voice and even in his broken form, John managed to smile. "I had an accident, Sherlock," he slumped on the empty sofa and put his head back. An hour later (seemed like moments, really), he felt that he was being observed. He looked up and saw Sherlock standing there with a mug of tea.

"Oh, I…thanks," he gratefully took the mug and put it on his left. The right arm was too painful to be moved on its own, he had to gently cushion it under his left one to move and make some space for Sherlock to sit. "Your colleagues are idiots, John. I could have patched up a broken arm better than that, and I am a Chemist." Sherlock continued ranting and John sipped his tea. Nothing new, same old Sherlock.

"I ordered Thai, I hope you are okay with it," Sherlock said, while examining John's right arm and thinking of ways to undo the shoddy work. "Okay is one thing I shall not be for a few weeks, but I'm fine with Thai." Sherlock kept mumbling under his breath, things about John's colleagues, things about the fingernails of typists, something about thrombosis and thrombolysis (in short, things John hadn't heard of in his life). When he did stop, it was because the food had arrived.

Sherlock came back with the take-away, he looked weird to John, so out of place with the parcel of food in his hands. He gave John his food on a clean plate (that's as considerate as Sherlock gets) and began wolfing down his own because he had just realized that he hadn't had much since morning. A piece of toast with an exact bite missing was thrown out by Mrs. Hudson in the afternoon (or evening, Sherlock was busy with the violin, he had no idea of the time).

It was a long time after Sherlock had finished with the food and was looking at the labels with particular attention when he noticed that John was still fumbling around with his own. He observed him for a while, during which John noticed and had the time to say "Oh, enjoying our roommate's deplorable condition, are we?" to which Sherlock grunted and began helping him.

"Oh, why don't you call your date then?"Sherlock wanted to retort but the painful look on John's face made him eat his words. He unwrapped the food and let the foil roll around, John followed it with his eyes for a while and looked at Sherlock, exasperated. Sherlock gave him a look saying what-is-wrong-with-you but picked it up, nonetheless and rolled it inside his fist. While John was busy adjusting his arm, he threw it behind the sofa.

"There you go, John," he said with a smile, not trying to sound overtly proud or sarcastic. John simply looked at the food, unable to decide what he was supposed to do with the soup. The stir fried noodles lay cold and he was looking at the fork with particular interest. Sherlock made a soft 'Oh' sound and looked at John with an expression not quite apt for their situation. "Yeah, forget it, I think I'll have some fruits," John said, with a look of utter remorse that he kept shifting from his arm to the food. It did smell delicious.

"I could…help, you know," Sherlock said, carefully avoiding John's eyes. Even though John was not alert enough to look at the ghost of a smile that still shadowed his face, Sherlock was a man who liked to close all the loopholes before he made any move. "Yeah, I'm not taking saline drips, Sherlock, thank you very much," John was getting edgier by the moment and his arm wasn't being any supportive, either.

"No, I meant…I could, you know…" the situation of Sherlock Holmes fumbling for words made John look at him with interest. "Here, open your mouth," Sherlock dunked the spoon into the soup bowl and held it towards John without looking at him. John looked at Sherlock and then at his extended arm with his mouth open. "Eat it, I have other things to do too, John. You see, I don't have dates and great flatmates," Sherlock was visibly pink now. John ate the soup without saying a word. And then the noodles. Sherlock got extremely interested in the freshly dusted cabinets, stealing a glance every now and then at John.

"The wine you can manage, I suppose, Dr. Watson?" Sherlock still wouldn't meet John's eye. He really did look endearing to John who mumbled a small grunt in response.

They were both furiously blushing.


	3. Chapter 3

III

John sipped his wine as Sherlock resolutely watched some action movie. They sat at a distance from each other and John had a clear view of Sherlock - the chiseled face and the arch of the eyebrows, the freckles that could be the map of some distant place and the continuously whirring brain that could be heard by John from a thousand miles. The eyes, John couldn't, for the life of him, predict the colors of. They were blue gray once, steely blue later and sometimes green, it was as if he had a show of lights going on in there, applause for the brilliant mind that worked everything for the body. His curls looked soft in the dark room lighted by nothing but the television. His skin was pale and luminous, but it looked as beautiful as the white sun that peeks through the Alps.

Sherlock had had a glass of wine and he was already getting dizzy. It was the only thing he disliked about John, he made him do things he wouldn't usually do. Like the wine. Sherlock never drank any wine, usually but he did now because he wanted to look composed and calm. So far, it was only John who had ever been able to remove the ascetic from his mind's shrine, to jar him enough so as to make him forget what he could hold and what he couldn't.

He looked back with a reproachful gaze and saw a surprised flicker of John's eyes quickly turning away from him. It was so quick that his face still held the shadow of surprise, it was red.

"Why are you staring at me, John?" Sherlock blurted out and then mentally whacked himself. One look at John's face and he knew he shouldn't have said it. He looked embarrassed and a little hurt. Why did Sherlock have to be an ass always, he could have let it go. Sighing, he put his hand on John's knee and squeezed it a little, hoping that it would be an adequate apology.

What happened after that was a blur, both to him and to John. With a frantic movement, John looked at him with such a gaze that it threw Sherlock off track. The next thing he knew, John's fingers were snaking through his curls and his lips gently brushed off his own and God, was it wonderful. His mouth felt soft and it was as if John wanted to say everything in that kiss, everything that he hadn't been able to say for so long. Sherlock held John by the waist, careful not to upset his arm and felt the strong body ripple under his hand. No matter how many books he read, it could never have occurred to him how heavenly the kiss was. The surge of blood and the want he felt, it was like an emotional chemistry- colors mixing into each other, metals melting and re-molding themselves.

John didn't know what Sherlock's reaction would be but the moment his lips parted, inviting John with the same want that he had been feeling, John knew that if he died now, there wouldn't be a person more alive than him. The skeletal fingers clawed their way to his waist, there was trepidation but Sherlock learnt so quickly. For once, John was happy that he wasn't analyzing.

The wine worked its way up and John found his hands undoing Sherlock's robe. That is when it happened. The cell phone flashed, no sound and Sherlock got distracted. For a second, Sherlock became aware of where they were and what they were doing. Without looking at John, he grabbed the phone and almost ran to his room, long strides and John could hear his door slam in his wake.

John sat there for a moment, not knowing what to do, not knowing what had gone wrong. He held his head in his hands and sat for hours, hoping that Sherlock would come out and explain. The Sherlock who had explanations for everything, nothing was random for him, every tiny click of the bottle and every bird that sang had a reason.

But it was only the evening of the next day that the door of his room opened again. And Sherlock came out with a look that said he was having the most horrible of hangovers but didn't want John's help. He went out of the door, not even acknowledging John's half-awake presence on the living room couch. John kept staring at the door, at the spot where the brilliant head had vanished.

He groaned. What had he done…


	4. Chapter 4

IV

John waited and he waited. He knew he had to talk to Sherlock before the genius deduced something way out of proportion. Sherlock was back and into his room, he had sneaked in while John was having a nap. His apparatus from the kitchen was gone and that was the first thing John noticed when he woke up. At first he thought that there had been a break in (but why would they steal a useless microscope and a 'packet' of human nails from the fridge?), but the soft sounds from Sherlock's room made him sure that his flat-mate had returned. Returned and not bothered to explain.

Sherlock's mind had never flipped so much, it was working so fast that it hurt his head (the wine was there too), he had never been troubled by his intelligence, never for one second cursed the speed with which things clicked and cogs seamlessly moved in his head, but today, there was an uproar. The moment he got off the bed, he couldn't even see straight.

Sherlock didn't take a bath; he was still wearing his night clothes, whipped the scarf to where it belonged and ran out of the house. He knew he had done a terrible thing, he knew John was straight. When had he ever given Sherlock a hint that he was interested in men? He had girlfriends, always had. "It was just the wine," Sherlock thought as he walked out of the flat. He did think he saw a head emerge from the sofa but for once, Sherlock didn't know what was real and what wasn't.

He walked down, picked the lock of the empty basement room and sat there. No nicotine patches, he had taken out his emergency packet of cigarettes and was sitting on the floor, surrounded by ashes. "John is straight, Sherlock. He likes women. He _loves _women. You, on the other hand, are an idiot," he talked to himself, amid puffs of smoke. It had been so wonderful last night, when John had made the first move, the ecstasy and the very thought of that kiss stirred things in places where things hadn't been stirred for ages.

Sherlock sat there reproaching himself and thinking of the repercussions for this stupid act of his. "John will move out now. You see, he would have woken up in the morning and might already be gone," he kept mumbling apologies to the room, to the empty air in front of the dead fireplace where he imagined John to be. The stellar John who always understood him, who knew what to say when, who was composed and calm no matter what Sherlock did, the ghost of John that was now looking at him with anger and regret.

"I can apologize to him and beg him to forget it, what else can I do?" he said to himself. The ghost still glared at him.

It was afternoon now and his head was still exploding from over processing. "I must go up, I have to," he thought. He dragged himself back up, not bothering to lock the door or anything. He simply slithered up and saw John napping. His mouth was slightly open and the hand was set at an awkward angle. If he moved, his arm would hurt because of the strain. Sherlock wanted to warn him, to gently lay him down on the sofa and cover him up, but he didn't want to make matters worse for himself. There was still that little hope that John might understand. That John might realize that Sherlock was after all, human and did make human mistakes ("Mistakes? Yeah, right" his mind mocked him)

He collected his microscope and took the nails out of the fridge. The touch of the microscope brought back a familiar sensation, things he understood, he needed to work, he needed to be distracted, to be back in his familiar territory. He felt the curve of the microscope, the familiar clicking of the clock. Every second of the exact same length, the room that hadn't been dusted for ages and smelled of chemicals. He silently counted the chemicals in his head, distinguishing the smell of each as one would do a breathing exercise.

He got lost in the nails, so lost that not even the sound of John's footsteps could disturb him.


	5. Chapter 5

V

"Sherlock, you are alive!" John said over dramatically, unable to hide his sarcasm. He was also relived to see Sherlock working as usual, (except that he wasn't). It suited Sherlock - the microscope, the blue fingers, the nails and the chemical smelling room.

John looked around, he had never been into Sherlock's room, never seen it properly, had never been able to know that if Sherlock were a room he would be this one. There was so much to take in, the room smelled damp as if sunlight hadn't touched it for ages, the books on topics that were so bizarre, John wondered if they didn't hide anything other than pages. The walls were plain Manila colored but somehow looked like the pale skin of Sherlock in the evening. The shadow of his working hands on the walls, his bone like fingers magnified and blurred brought John back to reality, a reality where Sherlock was still digging his eyes into the microscope and not looking up.

"I am working, I had some work, I had gone out and you were sleeping on the couch," Sherlock said without looking up, his voice shook a little. "Have you been smoking? Sherlock, I am talking to you and you better look at me!" John wheeled him around and winced in pain. Sherlock looked up, worried. "I…you should sit down. Yes, yes, don't look at me like that, John. We will talk. Will you give me a few minutes to compose myself?" John grunted a yes in response and sat down on the bed (examining it well beforehand, he actually slumped down; even in times of distress, one couldn't simply sit down on Sherlock's bed without being sure).

"I know what you are going to say, so say it and let's get over it. I don't want to stretch this further. Before you slap me with the bad news, I want to tell you how sorry I am for whatever happened last night. That's all, you can go ahead now." Sherlock had a note of finality in his voice; the keen eyes didn't dart around like they usually did but stood transfixed at a random spot on the floor. There was blankness in that brilliant head. He slouched a little, looking anywhere but at John, a teenager who had been caught calling Sodium by its wrong chemical name.

John was confused. More confused than the countless times Sherlock deduced stuff out of thin air and left him gaping, when he stated solutions in an obvious offhand manner and baffled even the Scotland Yard. He looked at Sherlock questioningly, not knowing what to say.

"I know you are going to move out. I know you "want to talk", I know what "want to talk" means, John, I am not _that _socially inept. I know that you have taken your decision and are here to simply inform me. I know, it doesn't matter anymore but if you can, please accept my apology. You've been on my mind for a long time now and I simply forgot how intoxicated you were last night. I actually thought that there was…hope. I am fallible, after all." Sherlock sighed, his lips were dry and he was tired. Tired of everything.

Suddenly, it dawned on John what Sherlock had inferred from everything. He looked at him and felt utterly sad, Sherlock looked so devastated, even a serial killer couldn't have revived him. "Sherlock, it's not like what you think, you misunderst…" Sherlock interrupted him before he could finish. "Don't make this more difficult than it actually is, John", Sherlock said with a shrug.

And this time John knew what he had to do. He pulled him down by the shirt and kissed him full on the lips, his hand gently directing Sherlock's head down. Sherlock was confused at first, then jubilant. John was sober now, he wasn't faking it, he wasn't doing this out of pity (he hoped he wasn't). Sherlock responded with equal enthusiasm, moaning a little as he held John's waist, wanting to pull him closer (but for the damn arm!).

There were lights everywhere in Sherlock's head, he was suddenly aware of everything, of John exploring his mouth gently with his tongue, nibbling his lower lip, moaning like he was. And the sounds of kissing didn't seem obscene to Sherlock, it didn't feel wrong.

John hoped that this would clear everything up, that Sherlock would understand what he meant to him and how grateful John was for having met him. It was a kiss full of gratitude and love. And apologies for having caused him that much pain.

After a few minutes (it felt like hours), they let go of each other, foreheads together, Sherlock still held him as close as he could. John looked up, slightly breathless, and their noses collided. They giggled like little kids and it didn't seem stupid to any of them. It somehow seemed to fit, even to the brilliant mind of Sherlock Holmes that had derailed a few hours ago; they were meant to be together.

Sherlock went back to his experiment and John had to leave for the doctor, no words were exchanged, only smiles and nods. When John returned, Sherlock was still busy working. He didn't want to disturb him. He peeked into his room and saw Sherlock smile from behind the microscope. John went in and cleared the bed. Sherlock looked at him, a question in those intelligent eyes. "Just sleeping, nothing else. The doctor said that the arm is fine," he gave him a little peck on the nose and slid inside.

After a few hours, when John was snoring lightly and Sherlock was finished, he slid in beside him. The little man stirred a little and Sherlock put his arms around him, his cold feet nestled between John's warm ones. "Oie," John mumbled in his sleep but let Sherlock spoon him.

They looked perfect, especially to Mrs. Hudson who has quietly peeked into the bedroom and clicked a noiseless picture. She knew what to gift them next Christmas.


	6. Chapter 6

John was desirable to almost everyone, his candid manner and his sympathetic nature (he was even cordial to Anderson and that really says something) was not only comforting but attractive and Sherlock was…well, he was Sherlock. The Anti-John as they called him in NSY. They were so insufferably whole together that it didn't come as a surprise to Lestrade, Donovan and Mrs. Hudson (or even to the primitive intelligence of Anderson) that they were together now.

"I don't like the way women hit on you," Sherlock said, looking straight towards the route their cabbie was taking, as they were coming back from a particularly knotty case. Although Sherlock liked to spend this time thinking about the case or having quiet discussions with his trusted homeless people, he was choosing this time to vent out a particularly nauseating emotion he had felt when Donovan was stroking John's arm and John was still smiling.

John didn't know what to say. Not only was he a little confused, he was afraid that if he said anything, Sherlock would sense the note of pride and happiness in his voice and draw baseless conclusions which would ruin the situation further. He merely looked at him and shrugged.

"I am not saying that you hit on them, it's just that _they_ do. And…" he pulled John in and kissed him, as if marking his property. The cabbie looked at them from the rear view mirror, his interest perking up and a smirk of disapproval on his face. Sherlock, noticing him, started making odd kissing noises that, more than anything, made John laugh in his mouth, evoking a bite on his tongue and an annoyed look from Sherlock.

"Mine…" Sherlock growled, head bowed down, clutching John's arm protectively. "Yes, Yours," John said, giving him a small peck on the cheek and nuzzling Sherlock's chin with his nose.

They got off the cab and Sherlock made sure that he was not tipping the cabbie and John laughed more as they entered 221B where Mrs. Hudson was sitting with Lestrade, the latter having a pensive look about him.

"How did you manage to reach before us? Oh, yeah, we had a lousy cabbie. Anyways, what is it? Have you no sense and care for other's need for privacy and personal time?" Sherlock blurted out, still not letting go of John's hand and looking at Lestrade as if it were his entire fault.

John didn't mind the possessive and angry Sherlock, not at all. He was thoroughly enjoying all the attention he was getting, the way Sherlock behaved like a petulant child when John smiled at Lestrade and insisted on sitting right next to John when they discussed the case. He wanted to kiss Sherlock till the detective knew how much he meant to John.

"Yes, yes. I'm _sorry,_" Lestrade said, edge creeping into his voice and throwing a pained look in John's direction. "I came here because I forgot to tell you something that couldn't be explained on message and I have noticed your new found habit of not taking calls when you feel I'm being stupid," he sighed, looking at the smirk on Sherlock's face. "There is this barmaid who works at Angelo's restaurant. She happens to know something about the case but we don't know how much or how important her information's going to be. We also don't want to scare her away or get suspicious so as to do something that'll cost us. Since you happen to know Angelo, would it be asking a lot to deal with the barmaid in your own way?" Lestrade finished.

"Yes, it would be asking a lot but given that half of the solved cases of NSY have my name written over them in invisible ink, one can hardly expect to be surprised anymore by how much asking-a-lot entails," Sherlock said with his usual air as Mrs. Hudson pursed her lips and flashed her eyes at him.

"Very well then, I'll meet you tomorrow, find out how it went. Goodbye. Thank you for the tea, Mrs. Hudson." Lestrade made to go and Sherlock had to face a 15 minute long lecture from Mrs. Hudson, telling him how one must not act rude all the time and expressing her disapproval by taking the tea away from him before he had even touched it.


	7. Chapter 7

John felt that he was somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. His head felt light and he could smell Sherlock. Curly hair tickled his right ear and strong arms held him close. He purred, contently and heard a small chuckle, a pair of soft and warm lips kissed his forehead and bony fingers gently massaged his scalp. There were more kisses on the temple and more purring. He woke up finding himself in Sherlock's arms, his head on the hollow of his neck and nose touching the exposed fluttering part.

Sherlock was looking at him with adoration in his eyes, protectiveness and love all intermingled and shadowing the ever changing hue of his mind. So much so that John simply snuggled closer and breathed in everything he could. This was the best thing that had happened to him in a long long time, he closed his eyes shut in the fear of it being a dream and hugged Sherlock harder.

"You are crushing me but I don't think I mind," Sherlock smiled and started moving his fingers through John's spine, massaging his shoulders and eliciting more moans.

"I need to go to Angelo's, John. You can sleep if you want to, I won't be long," Sherlock said, trying to break free and failing. He laughed loudly. "No, I'm almost awake. I'll come too," John said, letting him go and making a face that expressed his feelings much more than anything else.

Angelo's restaurant was rather crowded and a perfect place to interrogate a barmaid because there were less chances of being overheard or drawing attention. They took their usual table, Angelo promptly asking John to order anything and lighting a candle on their table. It reminded John of how horrified he was the first time they came here and Angelo mistook them to be a couple. He giggled at the thought and squeezed Sherlock's hand before the latter took Angelo aside to discuss his business with the barmaid. Angelo mostly nodded and John let his attention drift towards the street, the cabs and the play of lights. It was amazing how much time had passed, how his equation with Sherlock had changed, how he couldn't dream of leaving Sherlock now. His heart thumped with protectiveness for Sherlock, dear Sherlock who was brilliant in everything but couldn't take care of himself. John sighed and sipped his wine, waiting for the detective to return.

He waited for a while and then got bored, the bar was starting to clear up a bit and he could see Sherlock's silhouette by the far end of the restaurant. A group of businessmen obstructed his view and shifting around didn't help. Bored as he was, John got up and made to at least sit at the bar (he knew better than to disturb Sherlock's interrogation).

The moment the obstructions in his field of view cleared, John was thrown a little off balance. Sherlock was kissing a pretty barmaid with a piercing on her belly button, his lips working like they did on John's, the girl moaning in pleasure as Sherlock's fingers gently snaked up her thighs. John was angry, he was so angry that he pushed a surprised looking Angelo out of the way. His head felt hot with jealousy and a vein throbbed dangerously in his temple, precariously close to ripping the girl apart.

As he approached them, they broke apart and Sherlock turned around, hiding a small piece of paper into his coat pocket and smiling triumphantly. He saw John and waved at him, beckoning him towards their table. _The audacity of the man,_ how could he behave as if nothing had happened and look so shamelessly cheerful? Sherlock's lips were reddish from the barmaid's lipstick, a small purple bruise was beginning to form on his lower lip, another reason of John's rising temper.

"What…what the fuck was that?" John spluttered incoherently, unable to put words to emotions. Sherlock shot him a quizzical look. "What was what?" he said, still busy fiddling around with his coat pocket. John grabbed a napkin from the table and wiped Sherlock's lips with it, shoving it to his face, the red lipstick coming out clean. "THIS! What the hell were you doing with that…slutty woman?" John couldn't understand why Sherlock was being so unreasonable.

Sherlock looked at the napkin once and John next, as if trying to piece things together. It annoyed John even more, _Sherlock was acting stupid on purpose, _he thought, but kept it to himself. He was still in no state to talk, he tried to breathe slowly and calm himself down by closing his eyes but the image of Sherlock's finger stroking the girl's thigh flashed in his mind, making him angrier.

"I don't know why you are being so unreasonable John. This is a part of my work, you know that. I had to distract her, I needed these bills," Sherlock said in an offhand manner, still examining the bills and not bothering to look at his lover who was close to hitting him (or someone else).

John had no choice. He didn't want to create a scene in the restaurant. He got up and to the surprise of Sherlock, left the bar and quickly hailed a cab. Before Sherlock could even comprehend what was going on, he was gone.

When Sherlock reached Baker Street, still unsure about what was happening, John wasn't there and Mrs. Hudson knew nothing about him. He messaged him but got no reply and went back to investigating the case, not knowing that John had gone back to the bar and given an earful to the barmaid and to everyone who had cared to listen.


	8. Chapter 8

When John returned, Sherlock was dozing off on the couch, hanging by an arm with his mouth slightly open and hair awry. His eyes fluttered under his lids, as if even in dreams was he chasing criminals. There was something vulnerable about his sleepy self that made John stop and even in that moment of agitation, he couldn't help but smile. Sherlock looked more human that he would want people to believe, he looked simple and innocent, breathing gently like a child.

John had come prepared with retorts and angry comments, with defenses built strong against Sherlock's logical arguments but this was something he hadn't taken into account. He walked up to the couch and sat quietly on the side, watching Sherlock sleep peacefully, his anger and annoyance melting away to give way to pure love. He put his hand on his sleepy head, gently brushing the curls away and Sherlock stirred in his sleep and turned to land right into John's arms.

It was an awkward angle and hurt John's back but he dared not wake up Sherlock, the latter looked too precious to be woken up by inconsequential things such as backaches et al. John enveloped his arms around Sherlock, kissing his curly head full of weird information about cigar ash and the lack of any about the solar system. He smiled to himself, thinking that he was stupid to even believe that he could stay angry at this man for long.

"Y'r back, hmm," Sherlock said groggily, putting his arms around John's waist and pushing him back to make them both comfortable. He found a spot he liked on his chest and rubbed his head there to mark it as his own little sleeping place.

"Yes, I'm back," John said quietly, now a little ashamed at his outburst.

Sherlock opened his eyes a little, looking at John, knowing that he would have behaved the same way had he seen John kissing a girl. He silently cursed himself for not warning John about it, the case had taken too much of his concentration. Poor John, Sherlock had made him go through so much. "John, it's my fault, I should have warned you…" he made to say but John stopped him.

John smiled at him gently and ruffled his hair, still holding him in his embrace. He bent down and kissed him on the lips, softly taking all of Sherlock in - his smell, his skin and his taste. He didn't taste of the barmaid, he still tasted of John, he tasted like Sherlock; John sighed at himself for being so unreasonable and kissed Sherlock again, the detective now awake and responding with full enthusiasm.

"Mine," John said simply.  
"Yes, yours," said Sherlock and he hugged him tight, sleep overtaking them both now.


End file.
